A Shot in the Dark (Thilbo - Bagginshield)

Chapter 17

Bifur was not mad.

He knew what the others said about him. What they thought when they saw the axe embedded into his forehead. 'Lost his mind,' they would whisper in common as he walked by. 'Can only speak in Khuzdûl now. Can't communicate any other way. Such a shame.'

(Fools. Just because he couldn't recall how to speak common didn't mean he couldn't understand it.)

Bifur had not lost his mind with his injury, simply a few skills and memories. He was still perfectly capable of fighting in a war or in building a raft or whatever else was asked of him. He knew how to read a map, barter for supplies, and find food. He could still read the stars and ride a pony and sing along to drinking songs. Bifur was not anything less with his injury no matter what the others thought.

(Did they not realize that, had he been anything less, than Thorin would not have taken him along?)

There were simply some... things he could not recall. Little things that didn't have any effect on his daily life but were important to him for sentimental reasons. Like the name of his sister, or the smell of his mother's perfume. Or what color his father's eyes had been, or if his brother had died during the fall of Erebor or after. Sometimes he even caught himself talking to Bjarte about his day at work or asking what he wanted for dinner that night. Then he would catch himself and realize that he had been talking to air because Bjarte had been dead for sixty years.

(Or was it forty? Fifty?... Did it really matter anymore? He was still dead in the end.)

Sometimes, when he closed his eyes and blocked out the world around him, he could almost remember everything he was forgetting. Like the exact shade of brown (chestnut? Russet?) that Bjarte's hair had been. Or the number of freckles (thirteen? Four?) on his left shoulder. Sometimes he could even remember the sound of his laughter (a bell in the wind, right? Or was it a deep drum?) at a good joke.

(Sometimes he wondered if he made Bjarte up in his broken mind. How could someone so perfect be real? Let alone ever belonged to him?)

Bifur tried not to let the lost memories get to him. There was little he could do about his injury, and even less over the state of his mind. It was a miracle that he even survived such a wound! He was lucky to still be alive and relatively healthy. He counted his blessings every day and tried his best to get on with life even with the holes in his memories.

(But was it really a blessing? Or a curse?)

It was gratitude for life that drove him to join Thorin in his mad (ha!) quest to reclaim Erebor. Bifur had survived a near-death injury for a reason. He had been looking for that reason and had found it in his king's plan. He didn't mind signing away his life to help Thorin reclaim their lost kingdom. He didn't mind all the danger they faced, or the knowledge that it could end with his death. That was all fine. Bifur was living on borrowed time already.

(Part of him looked forward to death. It would be nice to rest for once.)

His easy acceptance of death was why he understood Bilbo. The Hobbit was the same as him; willing to die for a greater cause than himself. He didn't know what had happened to the Hobbit to inspire such logic, but he could relate to the burglar's feelings. There were just some goals (folk) worth dying for.

(Bjarte had died for him in the end. Bifur still wished it had been him instead.)

~*~

Dale was a city of ghosts.

That had been Bilbo's first impression of the ruins the first time around, and he found that it was much the same the second time. Dale was a skeleton of its former glory; a once beautiful and vibrant city that had been gutted and ripped apart by Smaug. Now all that remained of that beauty were hollow buildings, scorched fields, and the unheard cries of those who had never left.